The Blood of the Conquerors

  Rage possessed him at first--the rage of defeated desire, of injured pride,of a passionate, undisciplined nature crossed and beaten. He flung theletter on the floor, and strode up and down the room, looking about forsomething to smash or tear. So she was that kind of a creature--amiserable, whimpering fool that would let an old woman and a sick man ruleher! She was afraid her brother might die. What an excuse! And he hadkilled, or at least sanctioned killing, for her sake. He had poured outhis blood for her. There was nothing he would not have dared or done tohave her. And here she had the soul of a sheep!

  But no--perhaps that was not it. Perhaps she had been playing with him allalong, had never had any idea of marrying him--because he was a Mexican!

  Bitter was this thought, but it died as his anger died. Something that satsteady and clear inside of him told him that he was a fool. He was readingthe letter again, and he knew it was all truth. "There was nothing butmisery in sight either way," she had written.

  Suddenly he understood; suffering and an awakened imagination had givenhim insight. For the first time in his life, he realized the feelings ofanother. He realized how much he had asked of this girl, who had all herlife been ruled, who had never tasted freedom nor practised self-reliance.He saw now that she had rebelled and had fought against the forces andfears that oppress youth, as had he, and that she had been bewildered andovercome.

  His anger was gone. All hot emotion was gone. In its place was a greatloneliness, tinged with pity. He looked at the letter again. Itshandwriting showed signs of disturbance in the writer, but she had notforgotten to scent it with that faint delightful perfume which was foreverassociated in his mind with her. It summoned the image of her with avividness he could not bear.

  But courage and pride are not killed at a blow. He threw the letter asideand shook himself sharply, like a man just awake trying to shake off thememory of a nightmare. She was gone, she was lost. Well, what of it? Therewere many other women in the world, many beautiful women. And he wasstrong now, successful. One woman could not hurt him by her refusal. Hetried resolutely to put her out of his mind, and to think of his business,of his plans. But these things which had glowed so brightly in hisimagination just a few hours before were suddenly as dead as cinders. Heknew that he cared little for dollars and lands in themselves. His naturedemanded a romantic object, and this love had given it to him. Love hadfound him a wretch and a weakling, and had made him suddenly strong andruthless, bringing out all the colours of his being, dark and bright,making life suddenly intense and purposeful.

  And she had meant so much to him besides love. To have won her would havebeen to win a great victory over the gringos--over that civilization, aliento him in race and temper, which antagonized and yet fascinated him, withwhich he was forced to grapple for his life.

  She was gone, he had lost her. Perhaps it was just as well, after all, hetold himself, speaking out of his pride and his courage. But in his heartwas a great bitterness. In his heart he felt that the gringos had beatenone more Delcasar.